“If only there were a real doctor here to prescribe some sleep medication. Bet it would help with the bags. And the pallor.”
I roll my eyes. “Okay, I get it. Ceasefire, please.”
“And maybe he could prescribe some mood stabilizers while he’s at it, so you’re not bouncing off the fucking walls every morning.”
“It’s called a runner’s high. You should try it.” I pause, considering. “Unless you’re worried about your knees. They worsen with age, don’t they?”
“At least I can afford a replacement if I need it,” he says, just a little bit smug. Ouch.
“Your daddy can, at least,” I mutter, and his jaw clenches.
We glare at each other for a while, and then I shake my head. It could be my sleep deprivation talking, but suddenly, this back and forth feels exhausting.
“Look, buddy,” I say, ignoring the way his eyebrow quirks at the term. “If I’m going to stay here, we need to get a couple things straight.”
Landon leans back against the counter, crossing his arms and raising his eyebrows. “Oh, you have demands now? Unsatisfied with my generosity as is?”
Deep breath in. Exhale out. Don’t throw your mug at him, Violet.
“I think we should at least try to be…friendly,” I say.
“Friendly,” he repeats.
I nod. “Yes. Friendly. I’ll stop calling you mean-yet-clever names in my head,” which would be ideal because I’m running out of alliterations, “and you can stop being a jerk for once in your life. Think of it as a truce.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “I wasn’t aware we were at war.”
“Judging by your attitude this morning, I find that hard to believe,” I grumble.
“Did I miss the kindergarten lesson where telling someone they have an attitude makes them eager to be your friend?”
“No, but you definitely missed the one about burying the hatchet.”
He studies me as though he’s really considering my words and then surprises me by saying, “Maybe so.”
My brows shoot up. “So, is that a yes?”
“Let me get this straight. You want to be friends with me.”
“Friend-ly, I said. And I see it as more of a mutual effort.”
“I don’t have friends.” He says it like it’s some sort of accomplishment, and I blink at him.
“You don’t have friends,” I repeat.
“I don’t have the time for them or the energy or really any desire,” he says with a shrug. I open my mouth, but he sees right through me. “My idiot brother doesn’t count.”
“Okay, well, I can be your first.” His eyebrows raise. “Friend. I can be your first friend. Jeez.”
“I thought you wanted to be friend-ly.”
“Friendly. Friends. Whatever. I just want you to be nice,” I say. “Which means not accusing me of trying to screw your brother, or telling me I look like shit, or kicking me out of your kitchen, or—
“I already told you I wouldn’t do that,” he interjects, the corner of his mouth pulling down in a frown.
"I know you did. That was a very friend-like thing to say, and I would greatly appreciate it if you could say more friend-ish things of a similar nature in the future.”
“This conversation is giving me a fucking migraine,” he mutters.
